


the tree rustles in the evening

by templemarker



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:47:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2808068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/templemarker/pseuds/templemarker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was glad Ichabod lived here now. It seemed fitting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the tree rustles in the evening

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladyofjest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofjest/gifts).



> This takes place in early season 1, with no particular episode reference. 
> 
> Happy holidays, ladyofjest!

The cabin suited Ichabod, but it was Abbie's, too. 

After those first few months, when it became clear that Ichabod was going to be staying both in the future and in town, he had started to settle into the cabin. While he was single-minded in most things, the spectre of the Horseman and the revelations about Katrina weighing on him, Ichabod did voluntarily agree to go to Wal-Mart and pick up some things. The house looked less like a place to sleep between fishing and hunting and more like a place someone lived. 

Abbie had so many memories here. The Sheriff--Auggie, when they were together and definitely not on duty--was a workaholic, but he was also serious about taking his time off. He had taught her how to fish, how to dry meat into strips of jerky. Sometimes there were volunteers in the untended garden out the back door, and they would work through the patient effort of canning them for later. 

She was glad Ichabod lived here now. It seemed fitting. 

She spent plenty of nights sleeping out here, too, and with the work they were doing and the long nights spent researching or digging through artifacts in the tunnels, sometimes it wasn't worth the effort of going back to her apartment after dropping Ichabod off. Abbie had mostly packed up her apartment and things into storage, back when she thought she was going to join the FBI. She'd been too busy to get things out, leaving her apartment spartan. She was in no rush to get back there. 

The couch was lumpy, but she'd figured out how to adjust so she'd be comfortable. The crocheted afghan that had been made by Auggie's mother tucked in over her shoulders, and the throw pillow from the chair by the window made a pretty decent thing to rest her head on. Some nights the slight lavender scent of the afghan and the knowledge that Ichabod was only a room away were the only things that settled her nerves enough to actually sleep. 

Occasionally she'd wake in the night, the squeak from the knotted floorboard so familiar. Auggie had trouble sleeping more than a few hours at a time, and he'd usually quietly pour himself a finger of scotch before going back to bed. She'd started to cut it with water, worried about his health. 

Ichabod, too, suffered in the night, but he was less practised at walking quietly in the cabin. She'd wake, or half-wake, and feel Ichabod's eyes on her, as if was trying to convince himself everything was real. It didn't bother her. Sometimes she needed reminders that this was her reality too. 

After those nights, the morning seemed especially bright. The way the cabin was positioned meant that, in the early hours of the day, the windows filled with creamy yellow sunshine filtered through the wispy lace of the curtains. It was deeply comforting, and Abbie loved it when the sun woke her from her sprawl on the couch. She'd doze in the light, letting her face warm.

Ichabod's foot on the creaky floorboard made her smile. It had been a good night: they had made progress in their research, although Abbie had taken to wearing a filter mask because all the dust from the old books in the tunnels was disgusting. They had driven out here at around 10, stopping at Dunkin' Donuts so she could get coffee and Ichabod, a guilty look on his face, a French cruller. He pointedly stated that the donut was an American invention, and the appending of _French_ to the food was merely an adjective rather than any particular affiliation with those libertines across the ocean. 

Abbie thought that was a lot of effort to explain away the almost joyous pleasure he took in a donut, but hid her smile in her coffee. 

"Leftenant," Ichabod murmured from behind her. "I trust you are keen for more of your beloved caffeine."

"Abbie," she correcting, wondering what his face looked like as she said it, "and yes. Yes, a thousand times yes."

"That seems rather overeager for a beverage yet to compare to tea," he said, teasing her. She rolled her eyes; she didn't even know where the reference came from. Another thing she'd have to look up to explain to Ichabod. 

When they were stocking the cabin, Ichabod had insisted on a French press amongst all the coffee-makers on offer. When she gave him a pointed look, daring him to say something about the French, he had huffed and flushed and pointed out that this was the most obvious thing to operate, if she were to insist on coffee during their waking hours. 

Abbie had laughed, hanging on to the handrail of the cart to keep her upright. But Ichabod had taken her preferences under strong consideration, always making coffee when they woke in the morning, or when they worked from the cabin, tossing theories around to see what would stick. He had even gone out of the way to Coffee Labs, purchasing several pounds of Costa Rica Dota and Ethiopian Yergecheffe and a hand grinder. It was very...sweet. 

They were learning how to be partners, how to share their space so often, and she was very taken with how seriously he'd undertook this morning ritual. She would have been happy with the swill at the station, or whatever the IHOP had, but he'd made this something special. Something to look forward to. 

Of course, he'd only drink tea. But they were still working things out. 

Abbie shifted, her feet on the floor, gathering the afghan around her like a cape and padded over to the table, sitting and propping her feet up on a chair. The water was on the stove to heat, and he'd pulled out eggs, cheese, and bread. Ichabod was really into non-stick pans. Sometimes he'd slide eggs directly out of the pan to the plate just to see them move. 

He smiled at her, the light catching the fine threads of his hair, loose from sleep and free from the ribbon he usually wore. She smiled back, and thought that, despite everything, the Sheriff would have liked to see this. Auggie always tried to make her smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Title appropriated from Hermann Hesse in _Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte_ :
> 
> "A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.
> 
> So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts[.]"
> 
> [Coffee Labs](http://www.coffeelabs.com) is a real roaster and coffee shop in downtown Tarrytown, NY. They have an excellent roasted whole bean menu. I have no vendetta against French crullers.


End file.
